The Professor and Ericson were peering over my shoulder. I nudged Ericson and whispered, “More pressure.”
Ericson waved his hand behind him and, looking over his shoulder I saw the red head twisting a valve.
I looked back at Nellie but she was still swelled up like a little basketball.
“More pressure,” I hissed again to Ericson and he waved his hand again. Sweat was popping out on my forehead and pouring down my cheeks in tiny rivulets.
For a moment nothing changed and then I heard the Professor’s voice bubbling with excitement.
“Look, man, look,” he almost screamed. “She’s shrinking, she’s shrinking.”
IT was true. Nellie’s bloated abdomen was rapidly shrinking and in a few seconds she had regained her sylphlike figure. Amazed, she rolled to her feet and scampered playfully about, obviously delighted with her sudden change.
“It—it—it’s not possible,” Ericson was stuttering. The pressure in there would crush a man like a cardboard box. Something’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong,” I said with a pardonable smugness, “I got it all figured out. The U-235 on Nellie’s inside is pushing out, and the air pressure on the outside is pushing in—so,” I spread out my hands in a gesture of the Professor’s, “all that was necessary was to balance the two pressures, make them equalize each other. We’ve done that and as a result everything’s okay. Without the U-235, Nellie would be crushed by the air pressure. Without the air pressure she’d be blown apart by the U-235. Simple isn’t it?”
The Professor sagged against the wall, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “You call it simple,” he demanded, “If you’re right it’s the most brilliant deduction I’ve ever heard.”
“It seems to be working,” Ericson said, “but what if the U-235 begins to exert more pressure? What happens then?”
“We increase the air pressure,” I answered, “until the increased inside pressure is neutralized.”
This science business is a snap if you just use the common sense approach.
“But,” Ericson swallowed nervously, “she’ll starve in there. How are we going to feed her?”
“We can use an air lock,” the Professor answered, “the same type they use on submarines.”
Ericson frowned thoughtfully and then his head nodded in agreement. “Yes, we can do that. We’ve got the material right here. It shouldn’t be much of a job.” The frown faded on his face and his lips parted in a relieved smile, “Well, sir, it looks like we—” His voice suddenly choked off in a strangled bellow.
“Wait a minute” he roared, “How’re we going to move this confounded mouse?” He glared accusingly at the Professor and me as if he expected one of us to whip out the blue prints and specifications for the job. “I’ve got a schedule to maintain and this chamber is right in the middle of the tunnel.
We’ve got to go through here. Now what about it?”
The Professor shook his head with finality. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but surely you realize we can’t move Nellie now.”
“Oh my God,” Ericson gasped. He sat down suddenly on a pile of rock, his face going white and red by turns. “Do you mean we’ve got to detour the Chicago subway” his voice was so thick it almost strangled him, “because, because of a mouse?”
The Professor nodded. “As long as that U-235 is active it would be running a terrible risk to think of moving her. Only when that unit of U-235 has released it’s energy will it be safe to move Nellie.”
Ericson’s head jerked up, hope dawning in his eyes.
“How long will that take?” he asked eagerly. “Maybe I can hold things up for a while.”
The Professor counted quickly on his fingers and then closed his eyes. I could see his lips moving rapidly.
Finally he opened his eyes and beamed brightly at the haggard figure of the superintendent. “I should say,” he said pleasantly, “that a conservative estimate would be about two thousand years.”
Ericson tried to say something, but the words choked off in a horrified gurgle.
“So I’m afraid you’ll just have to keep increasing the pressure from time to time,” Waldo said. He had stepped back in front of the heavy glass observation window again. “Oh my,” he bleated. “You’d better put on some more pressure now. I think Nellie is beginning to show signs of swelling once more!”
Then Ericson found his voice. “Good God, man. Don’t you realize that we’ve got all the pressure on now? We can’t possibly make any more!”
I had been standing there, feeling like an eleventh finger or a third eye, when suddenly The Old Light began to burst over me. It was another idea. Screwy maybe—but an idea!
“Wait right here!” I yelled excitedly. “I’ll be back. I think I’ve got it! Wait here!”
I WHIPPED off, leaving Ericson and Waldo standing by the chamber, looking after me as though they suspected I’d gone mad, but hoped I hadn’t. In something like four minutes after I’d given the signal at the bottom of the shaft, I was up on terra firma again, jumping off the elevator and dashing toward a taxi parked at a stand near the curb.
The favors I’ve done for people in this man’s town quite often come in handy. This was one of those times.
I gave the cabbie the address I wanted. And flashing my press card in his mug, I told him not to spare the horses. He took me at my word, and we’d no sooner hurtled down Randolph Street—barreling through four red lights—than sweet music came to my ears. The wailing sirens of three motorcycles!
A few quick words, and we had the motorcycle cops as escorts. From now-on-in, the way was going to be plenty clear. Three more blocks, and we drew up in front of the Fire Station. I was out of the cab like a shell from a Bertha, and in three minutes had spilled my story—plus my demands—into the ear of the Chief.
“I can’t do it, Hosk,” Chief Martin said, “you know I can’t!”
“Listen,” I answered, pouring on the heat, “get on the telephone, if you have to and get the Marshal’s okay. But,” and I made my voice imply a lot of things, “get those trucks wheeling, before I have a surge of memory about a certain arson case!”
Martin turned white, but managed a sickly, eager sort of grin. “Sure, Hosk, anything you say. We won’t have to get an okay. Glad to help you!” Then he was off sounding the alarm.
The motors of two huge fire wagons were thrumming into action as I dashed out of the station and back into the cab. Chief Martin was at the door, yelling after me.
“But where to, Hosk?”
I’d almost forgotten that rather important detail. But time being an essence, and not wanting him to get a chance to change his mind, I yelled: “Follow us!”
Then the cab was lurching away to the second address I’d given the driver. The motorcycle cops were still serving escort, and inside of thirty seconds, two fire trucks had careened out of the Station and were whaling along on our tail. The din was terrific.
The good citizens of Chicago, lined along the streets of the Loop as we headed back east, must have thought that a special prevue of Hell was being advertised in advance. Three coppers on bikes, sirens wailing, out in front of a comet-like cab—and the procession being rounded out by two fire wagons clanging and moaning in our wake—must have looked like some fun, definitely!
Four minutes and twelve futile stop lights later, we wheeled up in front of a huge building near Twenty-Second Street and the lake. Once again I popped out of the cab and did a Jessie Owens into the place. The Allied Chemical company is a big joint, so it took me all of three minutes to barge past secretaries and find the boss, one Kendall Leeds.
Leeds was at the window, staring out into the street at the fire trucks in front, a bewildered expression on his thin pan. He wheeled, as I burst into his office.
“Hosk,” he blurted, “what’s all this ab—”
I cut him short. Ken Leeds was a wordy devil if he once got started, and this was no time for how-have-you-beens. Talking like a dictaphone that’
s been greased, I told him what I wanted. There was no need here for blackmail. For I’d gone to school with Ken, and he owed me plenty. Finally, he was shaking his head like a man with a twitch, so I knew it was okay.
“Sure, sure,” Leeds was saying bewilderedly. “Sure, sure.”
Then I got him to sit down at his telephone, and in another two minutes he had ordered out the necessary trucks. Portable units. Two of them.
Leeds was behind me as I raced out of his office. “I gotta see this thing,” he shouted by way of explanation. By the time we had both climbed into the cab, his trucks had pulled up behind the fire buggies, and were ready to go.
“Back to where I found you,” I yelled at the cabbie, and he threw the hack into gear, while the motorcops started their bikes again. The Fire Engines were behind us, and behind them were the two Allied Chemical trucks—some procession—and what time!
WE scared hell out of practically ever last motorist on Michigan Boulevard as we screamed back north toward Lake Street, for there was darned little traffic to halt us. All cars were pulling over to the curb, their white-faced drivers piling out to see what was going on.
The Salt Flats Speedway had nothing on old Boul Mich during the five minutes it took us to barrel down on Lake Street. Baby what a ride! Heart-in-the-mouth stuff. Leeds, sitting beside me in the cab, didn’t even open his mouth. He just stared, while the Chicago skyline blazed past us.
All this time, there had been the desperate hope in my mind that Nellie wasn’t ballooning any further; that we’d be able to get back to the subway shaft in time. If that stuff went off—I had to close my eyes and clench my fists at the thought, whoooof!
Tires screaming, we lurched around the corner of Lake and Michigan, and in several split seconds were plowing pell mell under the elevated structures, practically scorching the paint off the steel pillars flicking past us.
Another screeching turn—in which we almost ran down four fear-frozen pedestrians—and we were at the subway shaft. It was with thirty-seven varieties of relief that I saw nothing had happened—yet. For if the U-235 had exploded in our absence, there wouldn’t have been any subway—well, there wouldn’t have been anything at all!
We piled out.
Chief Martin had his orders. So did Leeds of Allied Chemical. Twenty seconds after we screeched to a halt, they were bawling orders at their crews and I was racing to the elevator shaft.
I knew that if we were too late we’d never know it. Supposing my idea didn’t work—I closed my eyes and groaned. It had to work, it just had to!
Two firemen were unwinding a hose and clamping onto a fire hydrant. Seconds later they were hauling the slack of the hose onto the elevator.
“All set,” Chief Martin snapped, following them and climbing over the coiled hose, “We’re ready. Where’s Leeds and his men?”
I looked anxiously to Leed’s trucks and saw that his crews were unloading bulky apparatus from the rear tail gates.
“They’ll be along,” I said. I looked at my watch. I’d been gone twenty-five minutes already. I didn’t have much more time. Minutes at the most.
I gripped the descent cable with palms suddenly clammy. Two of Leed’s men moved awkwardly onto the elevator, carrying between them a heavy crated machine. Leeds, himself, pale and nervous followed them. I jerked the cable, and we were descending to the tunnel, to Nellie and—maybe—to our tomb!
When the elevator stopped Leeds and Martin snapped instructions and I raced into the tunnel.
The Professor and Ericson were still peering into the blasting chamber. They both wheeled as I charged into sight.
“She’s about ready to go,” Ericson shouted, “Where have you been? What are we going to do? We’ve got—”
HIS voice choked off as he saw the firemen swarming into the passageway behind me. The Professor leaped to my side and grabbed me by the arm.
“My boy,” he gasped, “What are you thinking of? You can’t be thinking of—”
“I’m not thinking,” I snapped, “I’m guessing. If I’ve guessed wrong—” I left the sentence hanging and turned to Chief Martin. “There’s an air lock connecting with this chamber. Tell your men to drag their hose there and I’ll help Leeds set up his apparatus.”
The Professor was hanging onto my arm. “What are you doing?” he cried frantically, “You can’t flood that chamber!”
“Why not?” I asked.
“It won’t do any good,” he answered. “The pressure of the water will not be sufficient to equalize the U-235.”
“Maybe not,” I snapped. I waved to Leeds to hurry and then turned back to the Professor. “Water won’t stop it,”’
I said, “but maybe ice will.”
“Ice?” Waldo echoed blankly.
“That’s it,” I said. “That outfit that Leeds is connecting is a mobile refrigerating unit, capable of freezing water in somewhere near forty or fifty seconds. We’re going to flood that chamber and then freeze it solid. It’s the only thing I could think of.”
“But,” the Professor gasped, “That won’t—” his voice trailed off weakly, and then suddenly he snapped his fingers.
“Maybe you’re right son,” he cried, “Tremendous pressure is created by the process of freezing. It might be enough to counteract the U-235![*] Well,” he demanded suddenly, “What are you standing therefor? Let’s get to work!”
“You said it,” I yelped.
Everybody pitched in. The refrigerating unit was connected and turned on and water was flooded into the excavation chamber.
“We’ll have to reinforce the entire chamber,” the professor was saying, “steel walls, with layers of concrete to make this chamber absolutely impregnable. Then with a permanent refrigerating unit installed here we can maintain this pressure indefinitely.”
“What about Nellie?” I asked.
The Professor smiled sadly. “Nellie is being sacrificed for the common good. But maybe she will be preserved by the refrigeration process. Eons from now when the U-235 has expended itself she may be able to resume her interrupted existence.”
The water was rising to the top of the chamber and the refrigerating unit was functioning smoothly and in ten minutes tiny beads of ice were forming on the outside of the steel partition.
I began to breathe easier, but it wasn’t until the entire chamber was frozen solid that I really relaxed. Then I went limp all over. Vaguely I could hear Ericson shouting: “What about my subway? What about my schedule?” but it seemed like such a minor detail that I didn’t bother to answer. The Professor beat me to it, anyway.
“We can’t disturb this chamber,” he said emphatically. “We’ll install the necessary apparatus to keep this chamber frozen and it will have to stay that way. I’m sorry about your subway but I’m afraid you’ll just have to find another route.”
Well they did. The papers announced that the subway was being rerouted because “unfavorable conditions” had been encountered.
Nothing was said about Nellie or her stomach-full of U-235 or the protective armor of ice that encased them both. For the peace and security of the public mind it had been considered advisable to keep these things quiet.
But the city officials know about it. They’ve appropriated a special fund to take care of the permanent refrigeration unit and they’ve also commissioned Professor Waldo to maintain the entire set-up.
Naturally care is being exercised.
They’re the most important frozen assets the city owns!
[*] It is a well-known fact that water expands when it freezes, and many an expensive plumber’s bill has been submitted to careless persons who forget their science to the extent of allowing their water pipes to freeze. The force of a few cubic inches of water is sufficient to burst a strong steel pipe. Automobile motor blocks are shattered like glass by a few quarts of water. Therefore, it presents an interesting problem as to the amount of pressure that would be produced by a quantity of water such as this, filling a whole section of the Chicago Su
bway. Pressure on an ordinary automobile motor block, to burst it, requires several thousand pounds per square inch. It is quite logical to estimate that literally billions of pounds of pressure would be exerted by a large quantity of water such as this.
ADOPTED SON OF THE STARS
First published in the March 1941 issue of Fantastic Adventures.
Only once in a million years could it have happened. But it happened now to Wilbur Wunch—and he became the luckiest man ever born!
WILBUR WUNCH trudged wearily homeward through the wet, dismal night. His shoes squished protestingly at each tired step and his narrow shoulders were hunched against the penetrating dampness.
It was gloomy, depressing weather and its lowering gloom settled like a sombre pall over Wilbur’s slightly frayed soul.
He looked up at the rolling, leaden sky and thought of his cheerless spouse, Wilhimena. He thought of her first because there was something in the ominous banks of dull, gray clouds that reminded him of Wilhimena’s grim, frowning visage and secondly because the heavens always reminded him of Wilhimena’s favorite hobby—astrology.
Astrology! How he hated even the word.
It was his wife’s second favorite topic. Her first was a sort of continuous rambling recrimination against Wilbur for not making more money. When she was not berating him for his lack of money-making ability she was casting horoscopes, visiting astrologists and mooning over the stars and their orbits.
Wilbur sighed. For an envious moment he thought wistfully of the delights of a bachelor existence.
His musings centered on one Joe Bloddget, an unmarried young devil with a low-slung car, a bachelor apartment and hosts of friends.
Joe Bloddget had a much better job than himself. He had a much better existence. He had much more fun. He enjoyed life to the full and did whatever he wanted to do.
It wasn’t fair, he thought darkly, that one human being should be so happy and another human being be so miserable. He could be like Joe Bloddget if—he derailed that particular train of thought with a jerk and hurried on homeward.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 10
